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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26188261">smoke and mirrors</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgirloverthere/pseuds/thatgirloverthere'>thatgirloverthere</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Great Pretender (Anime)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Case 1: LA Confidential, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Recreational Drug Use</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:48:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,081</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26188261</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgirloverthere/pseuds/thatgirloverthere</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The balmy heat has seeped into every crevice of the villa, and Makoto can't sleep.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Edamura Makoto/Laurent Thierry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>621</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>smoke and mirrors</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>please enjoy some self-indulgent, gratuitous porn w minor plot. mind the tags!</p><p>_________</p><p>contains spoilers through Case 1: LA Confidential; Episodes 1-1 through 1-5.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div>
  <p>___</p>
</div><div>
  <p>It happens on the kind of night that can shield a secret.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>A heavy cast of purple-grey looms against the sky, hanging lazily like smoke over the terrace of Cynthia's villa. The sun’s last ripples of orange tease the horizon, glittering against the tide as the many revelers hoot and kick at the sand in their riotous, newly wealthy glee.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto struggles to recall his exact location— <em>had Cynthia said French Polynesia? The Maldives?</em>— and thinks it a blessed question to have no answer to.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Earlier, he had been so shocked to see them both alive, and afraid it could be naught but a mirage. He had lay in the sand in his shock, at first absolutely stupefied and then, rabidly furious. Abbie he was quick to forgive — or perhaps it was that she desired neither to explain herself, nor to be forgiven at all. Things with Laurent had been trickier, for some reason. Even still, when Makoto closed his eyes he could see blood pooling on the lab’s concrete floor, congealing in the spun gold of his hair. He could still see them both lying there, lifeless and unmoving. It had been like walking through a dream and watching it devolve to a nightmare, right through the lens of his glasses. He had seen it once before, the faint, blank impression of features through the thin cloth of a shroud, and now, twice more he was seeing the same thing. He had squeezed his eyes shut in a desperate anger, but when he opened them it was so bright, and so hot and it had been like escaping the clutches of his nightmare.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>This was all that he had remembered, and both Abbie and Laurent had taken an almost sadistic joy in catching him up to speed, with each new revelation the sting of all that Makoto hadn't known.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He looks out over the vast ocean, at the fruited daiquiri that lay untouched at his side, and then at Laurent— the easy tilt of his smirk, his haphazard and scantily-buttoned shirt infuriatingly stylish.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Tendrils of rabid vines writhe over the railing, their fierce green setting off the cream linen against his skin— the upper part of his clavicle bronzed and faintly red from a day under the sun's unrelenting burn. The loose buttons teased the faintest impression of chest hair, light and fine like corn silk. Perfect bastard. Makoto’s lips feel very dry in the sub-tropical heat, the first appraising sip of his cocktail leaving a distinct, thick coating of coconut over his tongue. The faint burn of rum follows soon after.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I suppose I should apologize, again,” Laurent begins, diplomatic as ever. “For not keeping you in the loop.” Behind him, the group has set about building a beach bonfire as shrill crickets begin an early, lazy buzz.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto clicks his tongue and shifts his gaze up to the other man. “That’s not what I’m upset about, Laurent. I thought you were dead.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“LA is known for smoke and mirrors. Nothing but a little movie magic,” Laurent replies easily. “I’m alive as sin.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The lilt of his accent is charming, the ultimate sooth-sayer.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“We all played a part, literally and figuratively speaking, and so did you, <em>mon chou. </em>And it was a very convincing performance, at that! You’ve exceeded my expectations.” Laurent takes a slow sip of his wine, dark red and thick as blood.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto thinks briefly about the implications of Laurent expecting something from him. And maybe that this could begin to define what sort of bizarre relationship they seem to have. Makoto cannot recount any particularly close friends, but even still he would not peg Laurent quite as his... friend. And not quite an employer either, nor a coworker, since it was now clear that everyone operated by their own agenda.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>But perhaps he could be something of a mentor, although Makoto is newly suspicious of his reliability.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The fire had been built and was now burning with a questionably safe intensity, the group dancing wildly, thumping and kicking up sand. There is no music, but Abbie and Cynthia are spinning, the flames igniting their eyes to a shine, and Kudo is dancing too, swaying to an unknown rhythm and sloshing his drink about.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto looks down at his empty glass — <em>when did that happen?</em>— watching as it is quickly replaced by a giddily circulating Shi-Won. Because the taste of liquor had been so faint, it was safe to assume it couldn’t have been very strong, and that one more wouldn’t hurt— Makoto takes another sip.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I don’t know if I’m cracked up to this kind of life,” he says, finally, contemplating his straw. Around him, his peers revel in the spoils of war. Makoto envies their indifference. “I should make an honest living."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Laurent smiles at him with all of his teeth, like the Cheshire Cat.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“My dear Edamame, let me tell you something you have come to know as well as any of us. For any con job to work, at its core, there must be honesty! This is our greatest contradiction. The circles we are running in now, these are not gullible people. The quick cons you pulled back home in Japan do not apply here. This is the long con. The stakes are higher, and you must be that much more believable! It only worked, <em>this</em>,” he says, gesturing around them, “Only worked because you believed in it, and by effect made the Cassano family believe it, too! You gave Cynthia that much more credibility!”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He stops, and Makoto can’t bring himself to find a retort for Laurent, who seems keen to consider the matter settled. They sit quietly again, choosing to remain onlookers as the night grows more raucous, the emergence of some heavy drums and chiming bells sending thrums of rhythm through the night. Makoto takes small sips from his drink all the while, quietly grateful for the lapse in conversation.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He watches Laurent pluck the pouch of tobacco from his breast pocket, ripping free a new filter and rolling it to a tip in a smooth motion. From the packet he extracts a sticky bud of cannabis and scant wad of tobacco. The heady, slightly sharp odor hits Makoto’s nose almost as soon as Laurent begins touching it, breaking off bits of flower and working them into the tobacco. When he is satisfied, he rolls the mixture crisply, and it is not lost of Makoto that he makes a brief show of licking it secure.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The click of the lighter and he exhales in Makoto’s direction, enveloping him in a faintly citrusy plume of smoke. Makoto fans the air unceremoniously, crinkling his nose.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Sure, things would have gone much more smoothly without the extra fanfare, but I didn’t think Cassano had it in him to blow the place up,” Laurent says, chuckling to himself and inhaling again. "That was crazy. But it had the unforeseen benefit of covering everyone’s tracks, and it was all thanks to you. We couldn't have done any of this without you."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The spliff hangs lazily from Laurent’s fingers, bleeding smoke into the night air, and Makoto stares at his second empty glass.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Shi-Won again flits past, depositing a new drink at their table and bumming a hit off of the bemused Frenchman. “I know you don’t like to admit it,” Laurent continues, once she has left to continue her rounds. “Or maybe you don’t genuinely believe so, but you have a knack for this. I would expect nothing less from Japan’s finest confidence man.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He smiles so brightly, and with such sincerity when he says this, that Makoto almost falls for it.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Your life,” Makoto begins, a little shakily, “It isn’t... collateral, and it isn’t insurance for a job. To risk someone's life, your life, and get it so wrapped up the con… it’s irresponsible. You and Abbie might be okay, but if you hadn't been..." Makoto trails off, regaining his composure, "It might have broken me. I just- I just I don’t think I should be a part of it.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto looks away, in part because he is losing his nerve, but also because he thinks he sees that when his own voice cracks, so does Laurent’s façade.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Laurent takes another long drag of the spliff, holding in the smoke for longer this time. He ashes on the ground as he looks at Makoto — like he is contemplating what to say, looks at the spliff like he is considering passing it. Finally he looks up, his eyes glassy and so blue that Makoto feels uncomfortable, and he says to him, “<em>I’m sorry,</em>” with all the honesty of a professional con.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto wonders what other honey lies have dripped from that mouth.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The coil of sweet smoke from their table has lured Abbie, and Makoto watches as she abandons the throng of dancers and heads towards the villa.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I don’t know how to forgive you,” Makoto says quietly, and Laurent does not respond. The depth of their silence is thick with unsaid words.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Abby reaches their table and takes a seat beside Laurent, brushing the sand from her feet. Wordlessly, he hands her the spliff and she inhales deeply, tapping the tip of ash directly onto the table. She inhales again, this time exhaling a pronounced “O”, her mouth like a guppy fish, which is shocking to Makoto. It floats past him like a ghost.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto sips loudly at his drink, the straw croaking as its final remnants are sucked from the ice. The alcohol has sent a pleasant warmness awash along the crown of Makoto's head, and his third empty glass stares back at him. Abbie takes another quick toke and sticks the slowly receding stub out at Makoto, and before he can decline and clarify that he doesn’t smoke, Laurent is whacking Abbie on the arm, chiding her for offering their Edamame the butt end. Laurent offers to roll another, and this time Makoto shakes his head and says that it’s late, he’s tired, it has been such a long and confusing day, and the rum and the heat of the sun have certainly not helped his case.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Laurent looks briefly disappointed, but quickly recovers, nodding with another one of his mega-watt smiles. Abbie looks vaguely disappointed as well, and her gaze moves silently from Makoto to Laurent and then back again. She takes a final drag of the spliff and stubs it out directly on the table, Laurent clicking his tongue in distaste.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto pushes back his chair and as he rises he can feel the weight of the liquor in his legs.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He does not look at Laurent or Abbie, for fear that they will see it in his eyes, and so he says goodnight to the crystal ashtray that sits unused in front of Laurent, to the ashes on the ground, to the burn mark left on the table.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>_____________</p>
</div><div>
  <p>For as desperately as he wants to, Makoto cannot sleep a wink tonight.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The crickets and frogs are far too loud, and the balmy heat has seeped into every crevice of the villa. It must be far past midnight, the very earliest hours of the morning, and yet there are still people partying down on the beach, the telltale flicker of the bonfire in the distance careening warm flecks of orange across the wall of Makoto's room.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He has tried to sleep flat on his back, on his left side, then his right side, and now on his stomach, and still the sleep will not come and the wet weight of coconut rum in his stomach lurches with every toss and turn. He very carefully focuses on not being sick.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He is testing his left side again when there is a light knock at the door, and then the faint sound of the door opening and closing.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto knows it cannot be Abbie, because she would never knock, or make any sound at all. Shi-Won and Kudo were out as well, they had retired to bed hours earlier, the both of them far past their golden days of partying. Cynthia was also out of the question, having shacked up in her bedroom earlier in the night with a faceless American that Makoto couldn’t recall meeting.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>This person seemed to make no attempt at stealth, and was likely not there to hurt Makoto, the clop of two shoes to the floor sudden and jarring. This is the only precursor to the soft swish of one, two strides across the room and then this person was sliding up into the bed alongside Makoto, pressed firmly against his back, a solid forearm wiring its way around his waist.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto takes one breath in, and can tell from the smell of absurdly expensive French cologne that this person is Laurent, the idiot, entering his room and getting in bed with him, holding him now like it was as natural as breathing. Makoto wants to protest, but the rum, and the heady scent of smoke and cologne and the sea, the solid warmth of Laurent against his back, is startlingly welcome.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He tells himself that it is the rum that makes his tongue feel heavy when he asks, breathless, “Why are you here?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Laurent pulls away and sits up, and as they break contact Makoto is that much more aware of the temperature shift now that Laurent is here. It was so fucking hot in this room, and despite that the sweltering heat, the hot press of Laurent against him had felt even better.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You told me you don’t know how to forgive me. That means I have to apologize a different way,” says Laurent, accent posh and maddening, and when Makoto can stand it no longer he turns over to look at him. He’s in the same loosely unbuttoned shirt, the same necklace, but his pants are a soft flannel. From the other side of the bed, he looks tired but still ludicrously beautiful, his blonde hair shiny and softly curling from the day’s surf. A faint crust of salt and sand is stuck to his brow, and Makoto wonders distantly what it would taste like under his tongue, if all of his skin, everywhere, would be salty like that.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’ll answer any question you care to ask,” Laurent continues, although he appears less sure of himself, looking down at the two dark impressions of his shoes in the carpet. Outside, the drums have stopped and the orange on the walls turns redder and redder as the fire slowly burns out.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But you have to tell me something, too."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto closes his eyes, wants to say <em>Yes, anything, </em>but instead he takes a deep breath, and with a level of control that he is proud of, says, “What do you want to know?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Laurent laughs softly to himself. “I suppose you already answered my question. I wanted to see if you would let me apologize a different way… some might say the French way. But how sincere I can make my apology, well, that is up to you.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto bristles at this, now rising next to Laurent, closer than they were before. From this proximity it’s clear that although Laurent is by no means imposing, he is bigger than Makoto, taller, and with a swagger of a more confident man. He is smirking now, because he’s touched a nerve, and he seems to always revel in getting under Makoto’s skin.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto has been infuriated with him from the start, because he at once admires Laurent and wants him to quit flirting all the time, has grown from aggravation to impatience to reluctant acceptance of his many French endearments, has watched Laurent take pleasure in preening Makoto’s image, dressing him up and casting him into the perfect role, pulled off the perfect con. Laurent had earned his trust —and Makoto did not give his trust out lightly— all the while he was playing him for a fool.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The endless cog of these thoughts churns through Makoto’s mind, and when he opens his mouth to protest, to feign ignorance and ask Laurent <em>now just who do you think you are barging in here</em>—</p>
</div><div>
  <p>There is a blur of motion, and the first brush of their lips together is too quick for Makoto to register. Hesitantly, Laurent tries again, and this kiss is shy and tastes of the salt from sweat and sea. When they part, Laurent’s heavy-lidded gaze is still focused in on Makoto’s lips, like he could not dream to look anywhere else. Under the cover of night, in the darkness of this silent room by the sea, Laurent kisses him, and under the light of the moon they melt together.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Outside, the fire is no longer burning. There is no music, and it’s so quiet that the soft sound of the waves breaking on the shore creates its own makeshift lullaby.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Edamura,” Laurent says softly, breaking the silence, and Makoto will never again protest such titles as “Edamame” or “Eddy”. The way that his given name sounds rolling off of Laurent's tongue is sinful, the slightest twinge of his French accent coming through in a blend that was both charming and bizarre. “If you don’t want me to go further, now is the time to say so.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto doesn’t have to think twice, quickly shaking his head no.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“This also counts as asking if you are too drunk, or if you can tell that I’m Laurent, and not, say, Inspector Anderson.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Laurent earns a swat to the head for his cheek, but ultimately Makoto does not protest, and instead looks hungrily at Laurent’s lips, all but drooling for it.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Satisfied, Laurent crowds back up into Makoto’s space, but this time he gets that much closer, looming over him with one hand holding the smaller man down at the waist, the other lightly at his throat, a faint promise of control. Their lips meet with a more confident finesse now, and the burn of their stubbled chins together fuels their hunger, the slide of their tongues wet and hungry. Laurent’s hand tightens slightly around Makoto’s neck, and the pressure against his throat makes him burn hot with want. He keens with a fervent need for Laurent to press harder, get closer, be rougher. It scares him, thrills him, and he thinks that maybe the sun and the rum and the faint taste of Laurent’s fine tobacco is making him delirious.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Laurent continues, one hand still firm at Makoto’s neck, the other chasing cruel trails along his abdomen.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m going to make everything up to you, <em>mon chaton</em>. I know what you want, you need me to tell you everything? You want to hear all of the plans I have for you?” he croons, his breath hot against Makoto’s ear, “So I’ll tell you. You want me to clear your head, fill it with all the nasty thoughts I’ve been thinking, <em>non? </em>I’ll tell you what I’ve thought about. Maybe I should start from the beginning. When we first got to LA, and I bought you that suit, that was the first time I thought about you naked, at my mercy.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto’s eyes flutter shut, the moan that threatens to escape is caught as he bites his lower lip. Laurent continues, unfettered.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I thought about asking you to take it off for me, after. And then making you earn it, earn each fucking piece,” Laurent’s voice sounds rougher, lower and smooth as sin, and if Makoto wasn’t aroused before, he aches with it now. “You looked so pretty, I knew you had to have it regardless, but I thought about making you strip it all off for me, and your big fucking round eyes looking up at me when I asked you how you were going to earn it all back. How you would show me you deserve it. I’d let you give me some ideas. And I know you would be good, too, I wanted to <em>fucking</em> wreck you."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto’s moan catches even himself by surprise, sudden and breathy, and the friction of the bedspread against his growing hardness is nowhere near enough. Laurent’s hand claps quickly over his mouth, silencing him.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Like that, do you?” whispers Laurent, lips still devilishly close to Makoto’s ear, “You want it so bad that you can’t even speak. You were fucking drooling for it that early on, and you didn’t even realize why. You would have let me put my cock wherever I wanted too,<em> mon putain</em>, wouldn’t you? You’d have let me put my cum all over your face, first, and then put the shirt and tie right on over the mess. And then, you’d open up your mouth and let me put some down your throat, for the blazer, huh?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto is almost certain that the night’s earlier rum is what’s sending shots of pure heat through his body, sparking at the lewd filth Laurent spews quietly into his ear, accent equal parts prim and nasty.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Then,” Laurent continues, “<em>Oh</em>, then, you would have just the trousers left to earn, wouldn’t you? And you would look so pretty bent over in that fucking showroom, too, letting me put my last load nice and deep where I want to, eh, <em>putain</em>? You would beg me to fuck you with your stupid glasses on, huh, mess you up a little? I bet you would love it, I bet you would be moaning and sweating for me like a bitch in heat, like you are right now.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Laurent sounds slightly delirious himself, words rough and hot against the back of Makoto’s neck. The thick imprint of hardness against the swell of his ass is an intoxicating promise, and suddenly Makoto is being confronted by that which he has ached for since they came to LA, unsure of what had truly hurt him about Laurent’s transgressions, but desperate for some explanation. This was the explanation for the dance they had been doing around each other for some time, and now, Makoto wants to follow this trail of answers, as far as it will go. He begins to push back against Laurent, but his grip at Makoto's waist tightens, almost painfully. Slowly, his hand moves towards the bulge of Makoto’s erection, straining against the band of his sleeping pants. He rubs his palm over the impression of his cock, feeling out the shape and size, but never hard or long enough. Makoto whines ruefully.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Did you ever touch yourself in LA, Edamura?” Laurent coos, and does not move his hand from over Makoto’s growing hard-on, still barely making contact. Makoto bucks and whines and squeezes his eyes shut in embarrassment, but still he nods.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What a naughty, dirty boy. I bet you think about me when you do it, <em>non? </em>Abbie told me you’re not a virgin, either. Was that how you knew you didn’t like only women?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“It… wasn’t a woman,” said Makoto sheepishly, avoiding Laurent’s gaze. He had been a turbulent teenager in Japan, and so had his first. They had both been so excited, and then confused, and then ashamed. It was by no means what Makoto had hoped for, but it was also not a topic he planned to discuss further, much less with Laurent, who likely had a plethora of past experience, and infinite unknown lovers spread across area codes far and wide.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Laurent’s eyes flash at this new revelation, and his pleased Cheshire Cat smile returns. “Very interesting,” he leers, <em>"</em>You’ve been very honest with me today.” His hand moves suddenly to grasp at Makoto’s cock, the clutch of his sure, solid grip sending a frisson of need down the length. Gingerly, Laurent’s clever fingers snake their way across Makoto’s abs, down through the wiry trail of hair that leads down below his waistband.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You’ll let me make you cum, <em>non? </em>Consider it my apology,” Laurent whispers in his silken voice, pure sex to Makoto’s sensitive ears. He takes a nibble of the lobe, and as Makoto keens and stretches his neck up high to the ceiling in a show of his submission. Laurent’s hand again finds its grasp at his neck, choking again, this time more insistently. Makoto moans gutturally, the sound warped by the press of Laurent’s palm against his larynx. Laurent's other hand has made its way past the waistband of Makoto’s pants, and now his boxers, and he feels Makoto is hard as steel, hot and leaking wet against his hand.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Laurent tuts primly and presses a kiss to Makoto’s sweaty temple. “You’re making a mess all over yourself, and I bet you’re fucking desperate to cum, Edamura. Do you want me to let you?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p><em>Let you</em>. Makoto is in no mood to beg, prideful as he is, and yet, the words threaten to spill from his mouth with an alarming quickness. He hugs onto what little reserve he has left, and when Laurent circles the tip of his cock with his pointer finger, smearing his wetness all over the bulbous head, Makoto sees double and slurs out a desperate whine.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I asked you a question, <em>mon putain,</em>” Laurent says roughly, his finger not ceasing its slow, methodical rotation. His other hand clutches harder at Makoto’s neck, and he is starting to feel a bit light headed, but he wants to be good, wants to cum, wants whatever Laurent thinks him worthy of receiving. He feels like a live wire, thrumming with energy. Even the high from his best cons pales in comparison to this feeling. Laurent begins to slowly pump the length, the glide of Makoto’s own slick easing the way up and down. He makes a sound very close to that of a wounded animal, and Laurent looks like the predator reaping his capture, high off the hunt.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I know you know how to use your words, don’t you? Ask nicely. Tell me you want to cum, Edamura, I can see how bad you want it.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I want it,” Makoto stutters out, punch-drunk with lust. “I like it. But you- you can be rough, and you can- you can squeeze hard, if you want. I like that. I’m so <em>fucking </em>close, Laurent, <em>please</em>.” Laurent obliges and presses harder, first against Makoto’s neck. Makoto shakes like a leaf, helplessly aroused and bucking back into Laurent’s grip, who continues to stroke, more insistently now, and with an increasingly frantic pace. Makoto’s breath hitches and he can feel the first inklings of his orgasm build in his core. Laurent’s grip is solid and steady and he does not let up, even for a second. Makoto feels like his whole body is vibrating as he hangs on for dear life, whining, “Laurent, <em>please</em>, just a little, <em>more</em>…<em>Yes</em>, right there…."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Laurent’s unrelenting pace persists and he bites at Makoto’s ear, roughly this time, hands working at his neck and cock, clutching him in a grasp that feels like the ultimate clutch of submission. Laurent, working Makoto’s cock furiously, grits out, “Tell me you forgive me.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto did not find himself able to affirm or deny Laurent’s request, so quickly had he spiraled into the depth of his pleasure, careening with the force of his orgasm, so sharp he could feel it behind his eyelids. His whole body felt weightless, tense and pulled taut as a bowstring, then loose, Laurent whispering French words of encouragement into his ear as he rode out the last of the waves.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Bon garçon, bon garçon, un si bon garçon…</em>” he murmurs softly as Makoto regains the feeling in his legs, and the steadiness of his breathing. The faint stickiness of his release makes a slick noise as Laurent pulls his hand free. Unbuttoning his shirt, he uses it to wipe the mess from his hands, dumping it unceremoniously onto the floor and and flopping back onto the side of the bed. “You should take those clothes off,” he says gently, “They’re dirty. And it’s hot.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto could find no fault with this logic, and the thought of his dried cum flaking against him in the morning was not terribly enticing. He peeled himself from his soft sleep-set, boxers and all. In spite of his nakedness, he really was so tired, and the orgasm had set him off so nicely, that he found it hard to care that he was so exposed. The sheets felt newly cool against the layer of sweat on his skin, and as he spread his limbs wider he realized that Laurent had left the bed. He stood leaning over the balcony, eyes questioning out far over the expanse of the sea, his pants slung low on his hips. The early promise of dawn cast blue light over his chiseled form, and his gaze never moved from that point far in the distance, silently searching. He had procured from somewhere another cigarette, inhaling deeply and blowing the thin smoke up and away. He wasn’t hard, but Makoto told himself that he felt no particular inadequacy about that, really.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I didn’t get you, too,” Makoto says, dumbly gesturing at Laurent’s crotch, and then kicks himself for the awkward, obvious statement. The Frenchman smiles fondly and sucks leisurely at the filter of his cigarette.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Next time,” he says, not unkindly, waving off Makoto's remark. "You know, you're welcome to come back to the US with Abbie and I. I can see to your papers, if you like. And you can always just visit.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Slowly, Makoto closes his eyes and wills himself to quell the waver in his voice. “You know I can’t do that.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Laurent’s smile falters a bit at that.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I told you, I don’t think I should be involved in this,” Makoto continues. "I have some wrongs to right.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Laurent hums. “And so you do, then,” he murmurs noncommittally, and returns his gaze to the open sea, and he pulls harder at what little is left of the cigarette. Makoto tries not to feel newly lonely in the very large bed, among the newly mussed bedsheets that smell like sweat and Laurent’s cologne. Laurent stubs out the cigarette and flicks it over the bannister, still turned away from the bed, looking out far beyond as the first morning rays of light began to peek over the horizon.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Makoto turns onto his left side, away from Laurent and the great sea's far beyond, and accepts what small sleep he can from the last precious morsels of darkness.</p>
  <p>When he wakes, Laurent is gone.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>___</p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>wishing that the rest of 2020 is kind to all who may read this.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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